Before dawn, the city existed in shades of gray and blue, shaped by cold air and stillness. This was the hour I watched my seventy-year-old stepfather, Patrick, prepare for his day. With a quiet discipline, he would lift himself onto his worn bicycle, secure a heavy canvas bag over his shoulder, and disappear into the early morning mist. Rain, wind, or snow never stopped him. He always left with the same small smile, calm and assured, as though he understood something the rest of the world had yet to notice.
I observed him from my kitchen window, wrapped in warmth, holding a cup of expensive coffee, and wrestling with an unease I didn’t want to admit. My life revolved around polished offices, meetings, and carefully curated success. Against that backdrop, Patrick’s routine unsettled me. I told myself my concern was about his health and safety, but beneath that was embarrassment. I worried what others might think seeing a man his age delivering newspapers, and what it might say about me for allowing it.
I tried more than once to intervene. I offered financial help, bought him an electric bike he never touched, and suggested quieter, more “respectable” ways to fill his time. Each offer was gently declined. He would squeeze my hand and calmly say the route was his responsibility, that the morning air kept him sharp. I accepted his words outwardly, but inside I judged him, convinced he was clinging to routine because he lacked purpose.
That belief shattered one cold morning in late November. Patrick collapsed on the sidewalk during his route, his bag still partly full. He passed away before help arrived. The funeral was small and quiet. I stood there heavy with guilt, mourning someone I realized I had never truly tried to understand.
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